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THE
SUN
SHONE
bright on Claire Crawford as she made her way across the field. A
breeze pressed her skirts against legs that stretched out as swiftly
as they could. Lifting her chin, she turned her face upward, eager
for warmth. Mother would not approve.

“You’ll freckle,” she’d
say.

Claire didn’t care. The sun
was a fine companion on her daily walk to and from the plantation
home.

So much had changed in the last
two years. These fields were at one time teeming with slaves. Now, it
was different. Not that she minded. Slavery seemed to go against the
grain of society—barbaric and cruel. Yes, slavery had ended at a
great cost to many. Unthinkable bloodshed… Claire pushed the
memories aside. Best not to think on such things. No, there was no
need to think on that.

Facing forward once again, she
picked up speed. It wouldn’t behoove her to be late for dinner.
Father might become suspicious. And those suspicions would lead to
questions. Claire dare not let him discover where her midmorning
strolls took her.

Moments later, she crossed a
small stream. Stone by stone, she hopped over, holding her skirt.
Mother would have enough to scold her for without a soaked hem.

A voice rang out, and carried in
the wind.

Who was that? Was someone hurt?

“Can anyone hear me?” A
man’s voice. Dare she follow it? Her mind warned against such
pursuit, telling her of the dangers.

“Help me!”

He sounded so desperate. Was it
a sharecropper? A farmer? One of her father’s workers? Either way,
she could not leave someone, even a stranger, to suffer. Perhaps she
could approach in safety, keeping her distance, until she determined
the circumstances. After all, she was within a few yards of the
plantation house.

Moving in the direction of the
voice, still calling for help, she climbed the sloped embankment and
went further up a small hill. There, from the top, she could see a
figure, next to a fallen horse. What had happened?

The man scanned the area.

There was nowhere for her to
hide.

As he looked in her direction,
he called to her, “Please.” He faced her though, because of the
remaining distance between them, she still could not make out his
features. “My horse is injured. I need help.”

What was she to do? She should
run after father or one of the men that worked for him. But would the
horse survive that long? What was the nature of the animal’s
injury?

Her heart beat hard. Perhaps she
should help this man now.

But what of her own safety?

Shaking her head, she pulled her
things more tightly to her chest and marched forward. She could
handle herself.

As she neared the man, kneeling
by the horse, she began to make out more distinct characteristics
though he did not turn to look her way again. He was young, not more
than five years her senior. And he had dark hair, wavy, though it was
cut short.

And…and the blood. Everywhere.
On the young man, on the grass around the horse, and soaking the
cloth the man pressed to the animal’s leg.

Claire swallowed hard against
the sudden uneasiness in her stomach. One more step and the metallic
smell slammed into her senses. A hand flew to her mouth.

She would do this. She would.
She had to.

The young man turned and his
deep brown eyes found hers. Brief relief registered among the
surprise in his gaze. He frowned and looked back at the distressed
mare, leaning onto her wound.

Shifting, the horse let out a
pitiful noise.

Setting her things to the side,
Claire knelt beside the young man. “What happened?”

“She stepped in a hole. Her
leg is broken.” His voice shook as he spoke.

That wasn’t all. The blood
revealed as much.

Claire was no stable master.
Caring for horses was not her forte. Still, she knew something was
seriously wrong.

With a boldness that surprised
her, she reached forth and lifted the cloth, tugging at the young
man’s hand.

He relented and raised it.

The bone was visible through the
skin.

She turned her head, hand
pressed to her mouth, not able to control her gagging.

Several moments passed before
her stomach calmed. Once she had control of herself, she faced him.

“She’s not going to make
it.” Claire kept her voice soft.

The young man shook his head,
gaze fixed on the horse.

Claire looked at the mare’s
face, then at the man’s grimace. She laid a hand on his arm.

He was shaking. From the effort
of holding the compress on? Or from emotion?

“She’s in a lot of pain. You
need to let her at peace.”

The man’s eyes slid closed and
he turned his face into his shoulder opposite where Claire sat.

When he raised his head, Claire
expected him to argue, but he nodded.

Moving her hand down his arm to
his hands, she pulled them off the wound.

He allowed it.

Then she helped him stand,
keeping one hand on his arm, the other on his hands. “Do you have a
gun?”

He nodded, but didn’t move.

“Where is it?”

Jerking his head toward the
saddlebag, now several feet from the horse, he began to pull away.

She squeezed his arm. “I’ll
get it.”

Claire retrieved the bag and
brought it to the young man. She had no desire to touch the weapon,
and no knowledge on how to fire it.

Holding it out to him, she
watched his features as he opened the flap and pulled out a pistol.
His brows furrowed and he swallowed visibly.

Setting the bag at their feet,
she then nodded to him.

He stepped to the mare’s head,
crouching down. “You’ve been a good horse, old friend. I’m
sorry.” His voice caught.

Claire's heart ached. How long
had this animal been his companion? His friend? In the next moment,
she stood beside him as he rose. She placed an arm on his shoulder.

He glanced at her, his eyes
first catching, then gazing into hers. Did he seek the kind of
comfort she wished she could give him?

The young man shifted his focus
to the horse and straightened his arm, aiming at the back of the
mare’s head.

Claire held her breath.

Nothing happened.

The man’s shoulder shook.
Would he be able to do this? He had to. This animal was in distress.
She hurt more every single second that passed. And there was nothing
they could do for her but to end it.

Claire prayed for strength for
the man.

He shook harder.

And Claire's resolve
strengthened.

She ran her hand down his arm to
the pistol, covering his hand with her own, laying her finger over
his on the trigger.

And pulled.

*
* *

Clementine was dead.

The shot fired and she was gone.

Was he grateful? Or sad?

The young lady removed her hand
and Henry pulled the pistol back to himself, but he could not stop
the shaking. It worsened.

Instead of moving away, the
woman embraced him. “Hold onto me.”

He did. Wrapping his arms around
her, he held to her as if she was the only thing keeping him upright.
Perhaps she was.

Clementine had been with him
since he was a boy. They had grown together. She was his constant
companion and friend. There wasn’t anything he couldn’t tell her.

And now she was gone. Just like
that. Would anything be right again?

At length, the shaking did
subside. Then he pulled back.

Hazel eyes, warm and comforting,
stared up at him.

“Thank you,” he managed,
face warming. How could he have fallen apart in front of this
beautiful woman? One glance over her appearance, he noted her
refinement. Probably the plantation master’s daughter. This would
not go well for him. “I apologize for any inconvenience, ma’am. I
didn’t mean to keep you.”

He averted his gaze.

“Keep me? It was better I was
here to help. Do you need assistance getting home? Perhaps help
with…” Her voice trailed off.

He closed his eyes. Her unsaid
words rang in his mind—with
the horse’s body. “No,
ma’am. I can manage. Perhaps you had best get home. I don’t wish
for your father to worry after you.”

“Nor I yours.”

Henry faced her at that. “You
would concern yourself after me?” She couldn’t mean it. This
wasn’t the first refined southern belle he had met.

“Of course.” The woman
jerked back as if stung.

Looking into her eyes, he wanted
to believe her, but found cause to doubt. He pulled back and walked
to the discarded saddlebag, pushing the gun inside the bag.

When he stood, slinging his
burden over his shoulder, he found the young woman as she had been,
eyes wide, mouth agape.

“Is something the matter?”

She shut her mouth and crossed
her arms. “No, of course not.”

They squared off for some
moments. What had happened? Was something wrong?

She let her arms fall. “I need
to get home.” Turning away from him, she stepped toward her
discarded pile of things.

He did so as well. “Let me
help you.” Arriving at the small stack before she, he crouched and
gathered the books and slates.

She all but jerked them from his
hands and pulled them to her chest.

He opened his mouth, but then
closed it. Far be it from him to wonder after the actions of these
rich women.

They stood facing each other in
silence again.

“Please tell your father I
will have my…horse off his property by nightfall.”

Her eyes softened for a moment
and she nodded. Then she spun and walked in the opposite direction.

“And…” he started, calling
after her. Why did he do that?

She turned.

He looked away, his face heated.
But he needed to say it. This was only right. So, he faced her once
more. “Thank you.”

She gave him a nod and walked
away.

It was likely he’d never see
her again.

*
* *

Claire Crawford stretched her
aching muscles. The tension was real. And the sting was real. How
could it be that her body still protested the daily tasks she
undertook?

Grabbing for her basket, now
nearly full of vegetables, she stood and moved toward the row of
tomatoes. It didn’t matter that her father despised her little
garden. She loved it. Everything about it—working with her hands,
producing life from the soil, tending to the seedlings, all of it.

Kneeling, she spread out her
skirt. This was one of her plainer dresses. Mother would not be happy
she had been in the dirt, but Mother was never happy with her or
anything she did.

Claire grasped the tomato
closest to her—plump, full, and a brilliant shade of red. But it
wouldn’t break away from the vine. Twisting it, she pulled more
firmly. Still, it persisted. She tugged all the more. The tomato gave
way, throwing her off balance and exploding all over her dress.

Her elbows stung from her
collision with the ground and she had been showered with bright red
pulp.

Mother would be livid.

“You might should use a
knife,” a voice said from behind her.

She jerked her head around.

The young man from the previous
week’s encounter stood tall and proud, a crooked smile on his face.
He was almost handsome.

A tingle shot through Claire.
Excitement? Concern? What was he doing here?

Righting herself, she brushed
off the worst of the tomato juice. Her dress would be stained for
certain.

Shifting to stand, she leaned
forward to push herself up but noticed the outstretched hand.

The young man had walked to
where she sat and now stood over her.

She slid a hand into his and let
him help her.

“Thank you, sir.”

The corners of his mouth lifted.

Claire offered him a kind smile.
Then she remembered where she was. And who she was. Her brows
furrowed. Was he stalking her? “What are you doing here?”

His smile fell. “My apologies.
I have business with your father. That is, I presume he’s your
father. The plantation owner.”

She nodded.

“I have just rented one of the
fields.”

A tenant farmer. So that’s why
he was on her father’s land last week.

His brows gathered. “You
didn’t think I was following you, did you?”

Claire's face warmed. “No, of
course not.”

“That’s the kind of
empty-headed self-absorbed thing I would expect from a woman of
your…” His sentence trailed off.